


Easy Breezy Beautiful

by sherlezza



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Also they all go to target at the beginning and no one is really sure why it's there, Anal Sex, Bottom Bucky, Eyeliner, Fingerfucking, First Time, Language Kink, M/M, Not Really Pining but it's alluded to idk, POV Second Person, Pining, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Steve Rogers POV, Top Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 02:54:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1763461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlezza/pseuds/sherlezza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s standing in your doorway wearing a shit-eating grin and an all-black ensemble that is reminiscent of the Winter Soldier, black boots and tight utility pants and a jacket with all these <em>straps</em> and, with God as your witness, an unbelievable amount of liberally applied black eyeliner. </p><p>You know you should probably close your mouth but you’re finding it a lot harder than it sounds and there’s a weird choked-off noise in the back of your throat that’s acting as a substitute for actual words, and he just stands there smirking like the cocky bastard he is, and <em>oh God why is wearing so much eyeliner and why, please why, is it so...hot?</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Easy Breezy Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> ♡ this is garbage have fun ♡
> 
> oh and you might wanna open up google translate...my sincerest apologies if the Russian lines are incorrect (they probably are, since I used none other than google translate for them)
> 
> i know that second person writing can ring some serious alarm bells for people, but i think that its kind of an under-explored area of writing in fanfic, and I did a lot of experimenting with it during the time that I wrote this (which was in 2014), but I understand that the pov won't be for everyone.

 

You did not know it was possible to spend over four hours in a Target, but as it turns out, there’s a lot to take in. You can’t imagine how Bucky must be feeling, but he seems pretty content, that is until Sam finds a pack of fridge magnets and tears them open (“Dude, we’re heroes, it’s okay, I can open stuff”), and chases Bucky down the cosmetics aisle trying to stick them to his arm. You find them both sitting on the floor near the nail polish, Sam using Essie’s “Aruba Blue” to paint a circle around the red star on Bucky’s arm. As you approach them, you see Bucky frowning at a bottle of black polish, telling Sam that “it should be called ‘Winter Soldier’s Soul’ or maybe somethin’ classy like ‘Barnes Black,’” and then you think about what they’re doing and—

“Are you sure you should be putting nail polish on that?” You try to inject seriousness and disapproval into your tone, but now that Sam’s opened up a tiny bottle of “Blanc”, you can see the design they’re trying to make and can’t help the wide grin that cracks across your face. “Is that supposed to be my shield?”

“Don’t look at me, this was all his idea,” Sam says slowly, tongue halfway out, looking extremely concentrated on his art. Bucky might be blushing. You might be blushing too. You need a distraction, and it comes in the form of the Covergirl section of makeup directly across from where Sam and Bucky are sitting on the floor. There’s a sale.

“Hey, Buck,” you start, waiting for him to turn around, “there’s a sale on Covergirl eyeliner in ‘ _midnight black_ ,’ you should get a couple, you know, stock up while it’s cheap—,” You’re cut off by Sam’s laughter that is quite honestly so loud that the whole store can probably hear it and wonder what Captain America, The Falcon, and The Winter Soldier are doing in the makeup aisle, and Bucky sticks his tongue out at you and rolls his eyes, “Real funny Rogers, you’re a regular comedian, kick a man while he’s down,” but there’s something in his face that sparks an old instinct in you, one you haven’t used in seventy years, an instinct that tells you to watch out because Bucky’s got that glint in his eyes that you know means you’re going pay for this.

 

\---------------------

 

It’s weird sharing an apartment with Bucky again—decades and wars and lifetimes later, you still hate that he’s in a different bed than yours, that he sleeps without you. And maybe some things never change, because you still lie awake at night and listen to him, just like you used to, before everything, and you still think about what it would be like to share everything with him. 

You can’t blame him for being an insomniac, though—even a year later, he still wakes up screaming more often than not, or speaking in halting, mechanical Russian and then sobbing brokenly onto your chest when he realizes what he’s said (you never ask). And for your part, you pretend it doesn’t mean anything when he shows up at your door sweaty but shaking in his boxers, tear tracks shining on his cheeks, whispering your name like it’s the only word he knows, and crawling into your bed in a silent question to which your silent answer is to wrap your arms around him and whisper soft words into his long hair. And maybe some things never change, because you hold him the same way he used to hold you when you were sick and sweating and cold and shaking too, and he lets out soft little sighs against you that make the 70 plus years of love locked up inside you threaten to spill out in kisses all over his neck.

And there are other things you hear, too—the repetitive creaking of his bed around one in the morning _every_ morning, accompanied by stifled groans and whimpers of a name you can’t quite make out but always end up pretending is yours as you stroke yourself with one hand beneath the sheets and listen, the other covering your mouth. And maybe some things never change, because the guilt and shame flushing your face while you listen to him is one of the most familiar feelings you’ve had since he’s been back. 

 

\----------------------

 

It’s half past midnight when there’s a soft knock on your door, and Sam goes to bed at the truly geriatric hour of nine every night (“I have a _schedule_ , okay?”), so you know it’s Bucky and your throat constricts in fear. You didn’t hear him crying or shouting, but what if you missed it, and didn’t come to comfort him, and what if he’s upset, and the knock comes again, a little louder this time, and you have to make this better so you take a deep breath and open the door and—

“Bucky, is everything—is every--is..."

He’s standing in your doorway wearing a shit-eating grin and an all-black ensemble that is reminiscent of the Winter Soldier, black boots and tight utility pants and a jacket with all these _straps_ and, with God as your witness, an unbelievable amount of liberally applied black eyeliner. 

You know you should probably close your mouth but you’re finding it a lot harder than it sounds and there’s a weird choked-off noise in the back of your throat that’s acting as a substitute for actual words, and he just stands there smirking like the cocky bastard he is, and _oh God why is wearing so much eyeliner and why, please why, is it so...hot?_

He leans in, one arm against the doorframe, blinks up at you from between long lashes smudged in black. You want nothing more than to kiss that stupid, coy little smile from his smug face. 

“Listen, I thought it would be funny,” he teases, swiping at his bottom lip with his tongue, making it red and so, so wet. “But you don’t seem to be laughing anymore, huh? Not so funny now, is it, _punk?_ ” 

And that’s all it takes, hearing him say that, and before you’ve even said a word in response you’ve grabbed him around the hips and hauled him into the room and slammed the door shut. You pin him roughly against the wall, and he’s breathing hard now but that damn smirk is still on his face so you lean in to wipe it off with your tongue when suddenly his hands come up hard against your shoulders and hold you off, an inch away from his lips, and he pants into your face, “Ah, ah, ah, slow down, tough guy, I haven’t heard you apologize for makin’ fun of me yet.” And you press your forehead into his and groan, because you know he’ll make you say it and you know you will say it because you’re so hard it hurts and you want him so bad you can barely breathe for it. 

“Damn it, Buck, I’m—I’m sorry I teased you. But I can’t say I’m sorry about the results. And—And I’m gonna be honest with you, I probably haven’t learned my lesson.” 

You huff a breath against his ear and he lets out a whimper that you both know was involuntary because he blushes all the way down his neck from it, and you smash your mouths together and it’s even better than you knew it would be. He whimpers again into your mouth and you swipe your tongue along that slick red bottom lip of his, pressing yourself into him, and it’s everything you’ve dreamed about your whole life, and before you’re totally aware of what you’re doing you’ve got your arms under his thighs and his legs wrapped around the small of your back. Your mouth moves down his collarbone, and he throws his head back and _moans_ , loud enough for Sam to hear, loud enough for the whole country to hear, and it’s the most amazing sound you’ve ever heard and you burn it into your memory as you lick a wet stripe up his neck to his ear. He shivers against you, and you can feel how hard he is in his tight black pants and it’s unbearable, finally being able to have him, and you just want all of him at once _right now_ so you slide a hand down and cup him through his pants. 

His hands grip hard on your shoulders at the contact, his metal fingers digging into your flesh and you want to feel them all over your bare skin and you can’t wait anymore, so you hold him tight against you and keep your arms under his thighs and carry him the five steps to your bed. You drop him on top of it, and before you crawl on top of him you just look down at him, sprawled out against the rumpled sheets—flushed with arousal, long messy hair splayed around him on your unmade bed, eyeliner smeared across his face, panting like he just ran a mile and he is the messiest, sexiest, most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. You want to do everything with him. But you make yourself stop.

“Bucky, are you sure about this? Are you sure about—I don’t want to do anything you don’t want—,”

“Fuckin’ _Christ_ , Stevie,” he groans, and pulls your face down toward his. “Don’t you know how long I’ve wanted this? Wanted _you?_ ”

And that’s the only thing you have _ever_ wanted to hear, and the sound of it fills you up and you smash your mouth back down to his, a little rough, maybe, a little rough and probably more than a little regretful, because if only he could have told you that sooner, if only you would have known, if only—and he knows, he knows exactly how you’re feeling and he responds to your hard kisses with a whimper against your throat that feels like an apology. You take it and you swallow it down with all the wasted years, and you kiss him harder than ever and he starts to roll his hips up into yours, his cock rubbing against yours through his tight pants and your soft ones, and he gasps into your mouth. His grip on your shoulders has become borderline painful, and there’s a desperation in his eyes as he grinds into you, and it’s too much it’s all too much and if he doesn’t stop now you’re both going to be spent too soon. 

“Buck—Bucky, please, just—Ah! Bucky, wait, just—,” It’s the hardest thing you think you’ve ever done, stopping the sweet, rough grind of your pelvises together, but you pull yourself up enough that his next roll upwards meets nothing but air and he snarls at the lack of contact. 

“ _Damn it_ , Rogers, either get back down here or fucking _fuck_ me.”

That stops you short. You haven’t had an asthma attack in over seventy years but you’re pretty sure that’s about to change. You look down at him, still sprawled underneath you and shining with sweat and sex and that heat in his gaze, and yes, oh yes, you hear your breath come out in ragged gasps and your hands are already fumbling at all the straps across his chest that have him bound up. But they’re tough as hell and you really can’t be bothered to take your time; you’ve always taken your time all your life and now you are finally allowed to take what you’ve always wanted, so you tear the straps from his chest, rip at the rough black fabric until his heaving chest is laid bare before you. He smiles, wide and toothy—shoots you a look and you nod, and then he pushes himself up enough to grab the neck of your t-shirt, both metal and flesh fingers digging under the collar, and then with a metallic whir he’s torn the shirt clean in half, and you don’t wait even a second to press your naked torsos together. It feels so good, better than you ever thought possible, and you’d thought about it a lot, beneath the covers when you were fifteen and twenty and ninety, so you press him harder against the sheets and grind yourself into him. He lets out a sound, guttural and desperate, as your clothed cocks rub together and oh God it’s too much, the friction between you painful and _so so good_ , and the sounds he’s making are going straight to your groin, and you don’t know how much longer you’ll make it if he keeps up like this. 

He cants his hips up frantically, erratically, his breath coming in short gasps against your throat, and he manages to pant around a kiss, “Steve. Steve. Please. трахни меня, трахни меня, _please_ , Stevie,” and you don’t need a translator to know what he wants so you rip the button from his pants and tear through the thick fabric, your desperation making it way easier than it would normally be. You look down hungrily, greedily, ready to tear the boxers straight off him before you notice that he isn’t wearing any, and he’s blissfully, beautifully laid bare before you. His cock is flush against stomach, and there’s a thick, sticky thread of precome hanging between it’s shining pink head and the soft skin below his stomach, and you don’t think you’ve taken a breath in at least a minute. He peeks up at you from between his thick lashes again, sweaty and undone, and breaks out that smirk again, so you force your pants down and then…you stop.

“Damn it, Buck, we need—,” You don’t even get a chance to finish before he’s holding a small bottle of lube in his right hand, and you aren’t sure but he might have just pulled it out of one of the straps on his shredded pants. You’re helpless but to watch as he pulls your hand towards him, cradles it with his metal one as he squirts the clear liquid on with the other. He guides your hand slowly down, watching you with eyes bright and alive from under the wide dark smudge of his makeup, and you realize what he wants, he wants for you to see his face when you finally touch him in that secret place. So you lock eyes with him as you feel your finger brush over the tight ring of muscle and he arches his back and cries out, loud and unrestrained, and you commit it to memory as you trace a circle around him and watch him writhe beneath your hand. Suddenly, you feel a cold touch tracing up your throat, then around your lips, before you feel it slip inside your mouth and you savor the sharp metallic taste of it, and you swirl your tongue around it in time with your finger around him, and as you gently start to suck at his metal finger you begin to push your own finger inside him. It meets little resistance, and he groans and presses himself down onto your hand, hitting your palm and grinding his hips into you while his cock twitches against his stomach. Gently sucking at the metal in your mouth, you push a hand underneath his writhing form and press it against the small of his back, and he nods and whimpers as you begin to rock him back and forth slowly onto your finger. He’s slick and hot inside, and your so hard and wanting it hurts, but you take it slow as you fuck him onto your hand, and after a minute he whines at you, whips his metal hand from your mouth and grips it against your forearm, asking for more, so you tease a second finger around his opening.

“Пожалуйста, пожалуйста, пожалуйстa,” he groans, and again, you don’t need to speak Russian to know what it means, so you begin to press the second finger in alongside the first and he hisses as it sinks easily into his slick heat. When both fingers are buried, he doesn’t let you go slow anymore, but instead starts bucking up into them with a desperation that makes your own cock twitch, beads of precome forming as you watch him fuck himself into your hand, a litany of Russian spilling from his lips like a prayer.

“трахни меня Oh my _God_ трахни меня, Stevie, пожалуйста,” he chokes out, “Fuck, Steve, нуждаться, _now_ , please Stevie I need it I need you, want you inside, Steve,” and it’s almost a sob. You pull your slick fingers from him and grip your hands around his hips as you press your hardness against him, already lubed up in preparation; but nothing could prepare you for the moment the tight muscle gives way and you slide, slowly, _so_ slowly, into him, nothing you’ve ever dreamed about compares to it, the way he quivers for you, opens up for you, bares his neck so trustingly for you and cries your name. You force yourself to keep your pace slow until you’re seated completely inside him, and his moan as you start to move, gently, is rough and raw and makes you want to plow him into the mattress. Instead, you keep fucking him with measured movements, and when you finally hit home again he squirms in desperation, licks his lips and lets out another raw, guttural moan, coils metal fingers hard into your hair and drags you down. 

“Harder,” he pants into your ear, his voice low and coarse and needing, it’s an order, and that’s all it takes for you to start thrusting into him in earnest. He bares his neck again as you push into him, arches his back up off the bed, and you feel his movements inside him and when he arches just right you hit something that makes him scream like you’ve never heard. You wrap your arms tight around his middle, supporting the arch he creates from the mattress, and thrust in and in and in against that sweet spot until you feel him clench around you, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your lips, and he chokes out, “St—Steve, I’m gonna—,” and then he’s gone, he’s gone, and he arches up once, hard, and comes crashing back down, your name falling loud and free from his lips as he coats himself and you in his release. He clenches around you, once, twice, three times, and you see his face, flushed and half-covered in eyeliner and his hair with his mouth still working to form your name, and you can’t hold back anymore, so you give one last push into him and let yourself spill inside him. He whimpers, a low soft whine, as you fill him up and chant his name into his hair, and when you finally pull yourself slowly out of him he lets out a small cry, so you pull him onto your chest and stroke a hand through his hair. 

You don’t worry about talking—there’s bound to be a lot of that tomorrow, but you have a pretty good feeling about it (except for the part where Sam kills both of you), and for now, it can wait. He nuzzles closer and mumbles something into your neck, and it doesn’t make sense right now and you’re both already most of the way asleep, but you make sure to catalogue it anyway, just in case. 

“ _Я тебя люблю._ ”


End file.
